Lay Down Your Heart
by MirielOfGisborne
Summary: AU. Newly wed to Thorin, Bilbo's honeymoon bliss is shattered by the awareness that he will never be able to bear Thorin an heir. Reconnecting with his past and receiving Thorin's tactful reassurances helps him understand that, sometimes, love is enough. Warning: may contain acorns.


_This is for everyone who has ever felt unworthy of the person they loved. I hope you like it :)_

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Bilbo stared at the soiled towel on the floor near his bed, where Thorin still lay sleeping, an arm sprawled carelessly at his side. He should have simply picked it up and taken it to be washed, as with all other laundry. But this was not just laundry. It was more than just another soiled towel. It contained, within its hardened fibre, the remains of half a day and a night of mind-numbing passion, dried and cracked. He remembered coming home breathless and soaked from running through pouring rain, then collapsing together with Thorin on the rug in his study, and then not much else, other than the sensation of floating light above the ground, in a cloud of sweet oblivion. Now he was suddenly there again, in the waking world, once more in full possession of his senses, standing alone in the fresh sun. And in the white light of that bright morning, the sight of Thorin's seed clinging dead to that crumpled towel made his heart sink to a leaden low. He became aware, more than ever before, that, as much as he loved Thorin and as profound as their bond was, it was a barren love, one that could have never created new life. That would have happened naturally if Thorin had married a princess of his own kin, as he had been destined to. But not with him. It would have never happened with Bilbo, and the pain that he felt as this thought, this fact acquired definite shape in his mind made him feel again like a thief, of something more precious even than the Arkenstone. Yet, there was not much more that could be done now than to collect the towel from the floor, and give it a good rinse in cold water.

Bilbo finally lowered a hand to the floor, feeling as if he was reaching into a dark pit, from which he himself would emerge sullied beyond repair. He gathered the towel in his little fist, then brought it up to examine it closely, not really wanting to look, but feeling drawn to its stark, sad truth nonetheless. Even if his senses retained the glowing memory of the previous day, it all seemed so far away now, as if all that had been good in it had happened to someone else, in another world. Without turning another glance to Thorin, Bilbo took a deep breath and went away, to do what was necessary.

When he returned to his bedroom, his heart in shreds, he found that Thorin was still asleep, blissfully unaware of the sorrow and the torment that something as mundane as rinsing a towel had caused the poor hobbit. Bilbo wanted nothing but to lie down next to him and die.

Yet, as he laid his head down on his pillow, barely removed from Thorin's head, a smile found its way to his lips, from somewhere unexpected. It seemed that no amount of guilt or anguish could change the fact that a certain royal dwarf was very beautiful and that this could be observed best when he slept peacefully. He was, in fact, disarmingly beautiful, and Bilbo could not fight the impulse to extend a hand towards his forehead.

Thorin stirred with a lazy moan and looked into the direction of the caress, his eyes half open. Bilbo tried to keep his smile aglow, as it would have been appropriate on a morning such as that, but it vanished as haphazardly as it had appeared.

Thorin noticed, of course. His eyes opened fully and studied Bilbo's face, without giving a proper morning greeting. He rarely did, preferring instead to think directly to the hobbit's mind through his brilliant eyes. "What is it, Bilbo?" he asked this time, sounding very lucid, and slightly grave.

"Nothing," Bilbo pretended badly, still not managing to recover his smile. "I'm just… looking at you."

The world-weary dwarf did not usually bite to such flimsy covers. "Something is troubling you," he insisted.

"I," Bilbo started but immediately felt gutted by what he was about to say. He reached towards Thorin again and brushed his finger warily against his throat. "I was just thinking that… That you waste yourself on me," said Bilbo eventually, his own words sounding terrible to him.

Thorin frowned, and in his look of disturbed confusion, Bilbo saw exactly how terrible they were. "I mean," he continued, feeling the need to at least explain, "I could never give you an heir."

Thorin's frown loosened, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. "It is you that I love," he said, taking Bilbo's hand tenderly into his own. "Would it be better if I lied to myself and to everyone else?"

His touch was undeniably warm and his voice sweetly comforting, not only in its tone, but also in the truth that it uttered.

"No, but -"

"Besides," continued Thorin, raising an eyebrow.

"I know. You have Fili and Kili," Bilbo finished his sentence.

Thorin nodded. "The sons of my sister are just as worthy to be kings as my own would be."

"Of course. Well, they are as good as your own in a way. You raised them after their father died, didn't you?" said Bilbo.

"That's right," said Thorin, kindly. "And I raised them well."

Bilbo finally managed to smile a little. He could think of an area or two where the two Dwarf rascals could have used further raising, yet he knew that both Thorin and their mother had done their best.

Thorin said no more, but the look in his eyes was telling Bilbo clearly that there was no ground to his dismay.

Bilbo squeezed his hand back. "You're right. I'm being silly," he said. Thorin did not seem to want to enforce that idea by nodding. He simply sustained Bilbo's gaze with compassionate patience, looking entirely willing to wait until the hobbit became convinced of his own silliness. Bilbo was not sure that he could do that before simply staring at each other in silence would have become silly in itself, so he sat back up on the edge of the bed and slowly untangled his hand from Thorin's. "I'll go make breakfast," he announced.

Thorin let go of his hand without much protest, as if there was no doubt in his mind that he could seek it again at any time and that it would be his in a heartbeat. Bilbo returned a tired smile as he walked away until Thorin could no longer see him. He stood a little against the outer wall of his bedroom, breathing and thinking again of the waste that he still felt he was cause to. The matter had been discussed before, when they had decided to marry, and he had thought it to be settled, but it seemed that it was not. It seemed that simple discussion was not enough to settle a matter like that. Not after he had been together with Thorin in that burning closeness filled with pleasure and light that would have eventually produced a child – their child – if he had been a Dwarven princess instead of himself. It did not feel any different. He knew within the last pore of his heart that he loved Thorin in that fathomless, age-old way that songs and stories were being written about since the beginning of the world. It simply would not have run the same, usual course. And it made him feel, for the first time, that he was missing something important, and worse still, that Thorin was missing something important because of him.

With not much more that he could do at that time, Bilbo sighed and made for the kitchen, to honour his word on preparing breakfast. Tending to things that had been part of his life for far longer than he had known and loved Thorin helped shoo away some of the clouds. His heart was a bit lighter when Thorin appeared in the frame of the kitchen door, looking very decent, his hair and beard braided neatly, and not at all like he was wanting anything other than food in his belly. Bilbo gestured for him to sit down and served their breakfast.

"Do you wish to take another walk today?" asked Thorin as he gathered some scrambled egg flakes with his fork.

Bilbo thought he could detect a slight hint of something more than a casual inquiry behind that question. Certainly, the previous day's walk had been more than just a stroll through the woods of his childhood. It had been more of an opportunity to simply be alone together under the shade of trees, in the fragrant, buzzing air of midsummer. It hurt to admit, but something stopped him from giving in whole-heartedly to a reiteration of that experience. "No," he said, "I would rather stay home, if that's all right with you. I need to do some work on my garden. It has not been tended to properly in a very long time."

"Of course," accepted Thorin. "Perhaps I can help."

"Perhaps," replied Bilbo, with a thin smile. It was the best he could do, in spite of Thorin's reassurances and his obvious lack of misgivings over the soundness of their bond. There was still something uncomfortable between them, something that seemed to exist only in his mind and that made it difficult to have a normal, carefree, scintillating conversation over breakfast.

Bilbo did not say much more during the meal. They did not continue in painful silence, however. Thorin obviously perceived the need for veering attention away from their personal relationship, and talked profusely about his plans for the continued restoration of Erebor, about mining operations, gemstones and gold work, about housing quarters for the Dwarves that kept coming from their dwellings in exile, and about his less favourite but necessary subject, the diplomatic relations with Men and Elves. Bilbo listened and approved mostly, noticing that almost two years after Thorin had set foot into his home for the first time, his tone when talking about his people and his ancient kingdom was still serious, but much less tinged with grief. There was actual confidence in his voice, real hope that whatever plans he was making, they would be seen to their end without having to pay in blood for it.

Bilbo could not help smiling to himself as he got up and washed both of their plates. At some point, while he rinsed the dishes, Thorin had stopped talking. Bilbo turned towards him as he finally dried his hands with a kitchen towel. Thorin was watching him with a sympathetic smile and a look in his eyes which told him that, whatever Bilbo was going through, he understood.

"Are you sure I cannot help out with the garden?" he asked.

"Thank you, Thorin, but I have been taking care of it on my own for most of my life. I can manage."

"All right. Do you mind if I go for a walk by myself, then?"

"No, of course not," said Bilbo, unable to restrain a pang of guilt that Thorin was offering to leave and allow him some time on his own.

Thorin stood up only a little awkwardly, as if there was more meaning behind what he was doing than simply leaving the breakfast table. And, indeed, there was. He came up to Bilbo slowly and took his head into wavering hands. He looked like he was resisting either kissing or hugging him, both no doubt infused with equal passion. Instead, he leaned his forehead against Bilbo's and stayed like that for a while, with his eyes closed. Then, he withdrew and gave the hobbit another soulful glance.

"I will see you later," he said, with a smile, then walked away.

Bilbo glanced after him until he was out of sight, realizing that this was the first time that they would be apart since they had been married. Perhaps he should have done so with a certain melancholy and perhaps he should have missed Thorin unbearably the moment he walked out of his field of view, but he did not. One of the best things about being with someone as world-wise as Thorin was that he did not have to explain everything and he did not really have to hide. Thorin understood perfectly that some hurts could not simply be willed away in a whiff by someone else's confidence, that Bilbo simply needed a little time to himself until the wound of his misplaced remorse closed well enough to start healing, and that none of it had any bearing on how deep and true their love was. Bilbo did not feel relieved that Thorin was gone, neither did he feel sad. He felt grateful that he did not have to add to his troubles the guilt over wanting to be alone, and that he was being given freely the time and space to find his own way back to a clear conscience.

He finally walked out into his beloved garden and breathed in the late morning air. Hints of lavender and snapdragon merged with the fresh scent of grass and ripening heat. It promised to be another true day of summer in the Shire, and rightfully so. It was the last day of June, the time of glorious sunshine and blessed shade, of crisp dawns and late, mellow evenings, and above all, of much delightful bustling about homes and fields. He remembered summer in the Shire perfectly well, and in that breath of a moment, it was as if he had never left.

His garden did not look as lawless as expected after almost two years of absence. His faithful perennials had found their own way back out of the ground. He did remember a bush of lovely light yellow roses that he could not really see among the unwanted overgrowth of weeds, but other than that, it did not look like it would take more than a day to restore order to his garden. He set to work, and as his hands touched dirt and leaves again, he slowly felt his heart growing back to its usual fullness, and the dark, grimy thoughts that he had started his morning with lose their grip on his mind, much like the weeds were losing their hold on the black, wholesome earth as he uprooted them from among his flowers.

And then, in a flash, Bilbo remembered the acorn that he had picked up from Beorn's garden and that he had brought to Bag End to plant in his own, to remind him of everything that had happened on the quest, the good and the bad in equal measure, and of how lucky he was to have made it back home. With Thorin there, it had slipped his mind completely. But he was indeed back home now, and there seemed to be no better time than the present to plant his acorn.

He went back inside and rummaged around for a suitable pot. An acorn of such generous size as those in Beorn's garden would have needed a fairly large one. Grabbing the largest one he had, Bilbo went to retrieve the acorn from his bag. As he held it in his hand, he thought back to that terrible day, less than a year before, in winter-wind–swept Erebor, when he had been forced to show it to Thorin in order to alleviate his suspicion that he was in fact hiding the Arkenstone in his hand. Of course, he did have the Arkenstone on him, just not in his hand. He kept it in a pocket inside his coat, and it burned his breast whenever Thorin talked of it with maddened lust, suspecting everyone but little Bilbo, save for that one moment. It was especially the lie that burned, more than the fear of being discovered. He remembered that day very well, clouded and icy. But there had been nothing icier than Thorin's empty, vicious, glassy stares and the cold tone of his voice. Only then, in that moment, when Bilbo had shown him the big, round acorn, his choice for a prize to carry back to the Shire from his wanderings, had Thorin seemed to gain back some of his true self, which also consisted of kindness and the occasional breath-taking smile.

In some ways, it seemed like it had all happened a very long time ago. So much had changed, so far beyond his imagination, and yet, one single look at that shiny, plump acorn brought it all back as if it had been a day before.

Bilbo wasted no more time. It was late in the afternoon, and Thorin would probably return soon. With the acorn secured in his fist, he took the pot outside into his garden and filled it with soil. Then, he dug a small hole in the middle of it, and buried the acorn and the memory of dark days inside the fertile earth. He covered and watered it neatly, then took it back inside and placed it on a window sill, where it would have light and warmth enough for the seedling of a mighty oak tree, and of happiness, to grow from within its decaying shell.

Thorin returned with the falling dusk, bringing back no signs of an awkward beginning to his day, but only a bag full of fresh mushrooms and a wide, beautiful smile. Feeling a bit regretful that he had missed out on the probably unique opportunity of seeing Thorin collecting mushrooms from the woods, Bilbo welcomed him back inside their home with an equally lighter heart. They had a quiet dinner, after which Bilbo retired to take a nice, long bath after a full day of gardening out in the sun.

Thorin lingered in the study, seemingly preoccupied with its piles of books and papers, even after Bilbo had finished his bath and gone to bed. But not long after.

Bilbo lay on his side, unable to sleep in spite of being completely exhausted. Despite the pleasant turn that his day had taken, something still hurt, and it hurt most when he was alone. Thankfully, he soon felt Thorin climb into bed at his side, his arm coiling lovingly around his waist, his warmth hanging above him and his lips kissing his cheek. "You are so beautiful, Bilbo Baggins," he purred, "and I am so fortunate to have you."

Bilbo laid his hand on Thorin's forearm, his mouth curling into a wan smile. "I'm glad you think so," he said.

Thorin smirked. "I know so." Then he lay down behind Bilbo and held him tight, placing his chin in the nook where his shoulder met his neck. "Consorts are not chosen merely as a matter of protocol or solely for the purpose of securing the King's line, Bilbo," he said, now sounding more serious, but still warm. "A King needs someone he can trust with his life, someone whose good counsel he can follow, someone who lays down their heart for him and who keeps nothing of it for themselves, and someone that he loves with equal passion."

Bilbo felt tears pooling swiftly in his eyes. They overflowed in a faint sob as Thorin finished his reassuring speech. He turned to look at him, and Thorin kissed his forehead. "You are that someone for me," he said, brushing his furry jaw against Bilbo's temple, patiently enduring his growing sobs. "You saw me at my worst, and you are still with me. What more could I wish for?"

Bilbo eventually buried himself and his tears into the dwarf's chest. Slowly, his grief faded as Thorin's large hand kept rubbing his back in affectionate, comforting strokes.

Of course, he was right. Bilbo did love him with everything he had, and he could only think of offering good counsel if Thorin asked for it. There was no doubt in his heart over that. Perhaps he really did have a right to be with him in that way, even if there were things he could not give him. Perhaps the things that he could give were more precious to Thorin at that time.

"I planted that acorn today, while you were gone," he said, in a broken voice, when he was finally able to speak again.

"You did?"

"Yes", said Bilbo, looking up at Thorin. "Not under the circumstances I had expected. I mean, you were wounded so badly and for a while I thought that you wouldn't survive. I thought that I would come back home and plant that acorn in my garden and it would remind me of everything, and of you in particular, because it would grow into an oak tree, obviously. But… things have turned out quite differently. You're here with me and you're my… we're…"

Ever tolerant of the hobbit's hesitations in the face of everything that their life together implied, Thorin listened and caressed the side of his face with his thumb. "Yes, we are," he said, with a glowing smile.

"Can we really do this?"

"It would have been much simpler for both of us if I had died, wouldn't it, Bilbo?" asked Thorin, his tone fluid and tranquil, speaking each one of those words with ease, as if the truth behind them was not really as terrible as it sounded.

It made it difficult for the hobbit to react. "Well, that is not quite what I was-"

"Perhaps you would have been sad for a while," Thorin continued with the same candour, "and you would have surely been wiser after all you have seen. Perhaps your fellow hobbits would have looked strangely at you even. Yet you would have slowly gone back to your old life and you would have had the acorn to remember me by. That would have been simpler than this. But I would have missed too much, and I would rather be more than a memory to you, hanging by the leaves of a tree. Wouldn't you?"

Thorin's thumb was still rubbing Bilbo's cheek, slowly and gently, and Bilbo remembered again the agony of guarding his bed, waiting for the unthinkable to happen. "I would have given anything in those moments to have you live, anything," he said softly.

"I live. And so do you. There is nothing that we cannot do," said Thorin, with simple, unadulterated confidence.

There was not much else that Bilbo could say, only to let Thorin's shimmering gaze sink deep into his, past fear and doubt, imprinting on him the only truth that mattered: that they were perfect for each other, that they had a life to live, together, and that there was nothing in the world that could be worth throwing it away.

Finally, a real smile flourished on Bilbo's lips, and he felt at last the fuzzy wings of sleep tugging at his eyelids. He plunged back into the safety of Thorin's arms and closed his eyes. And soon, all his hurts were forgotten, and everything was peace.


End file.
